Seattle 58, or draft - for All the Injured Parties in My Family, of Late

My physical therapist
is a crunchy hippie cookoo nut
drill sergeant
who, in between rounds of reps and stretches,
asks me if I’m eating enough broccoli,
if I’ve had any nightmares lately,
or if my chakras have misaligned
since mercury went into retrograde.

I owe this woman at least as much
as the surgeon who grafted the ligament back together.
She has seen me red faced, sweaty and grunting
with the effort of putting my shoe back on
at the end of a session.
She knows that nothing motivates me
through ten minutes of stationary biking
like Christina Aguilera’s makes me that much stronger
even though I tell the other patients
it’s a bootleg from a legendary Slayer concert.

When she tells me to visualize,
my goals, I think about skiing, and sleeping through
the night, and taking a fearless shower.

She says "I’m giving you your knee back."
I say "Um, did you take it?”
She says "No, I’m giving it back
to the rest of your body. You treat this injured
piece like it won’t belong to you until it’s healed,
like you don’t want any claim on imperfection.
But this is yours. I’m giving it back.
Stop thinking of your flesh as future carcass.
Come to the pumpkin patch of bodies
and pick yours to take home.”

So while I’m at it, I’m taking back my tongue –
the one I want to disown for weakness,
for letting me weapon it. I’m taking back my feet,
though they’ve walked me away from things I should’ve leapt for.
I’m taking back these hands.
I disowned them the day I hit my sister.
I’m taking my flat feet back
and saying NO, you can’t have arches.
I’m taking back my crooked teeth,
my stomach cramps, my shoulders wound tight as rigging.
I’m taking out my ribs
for tea and conversation
and sending my heart to dance class.